


Piranha Smiles

by SenjuMizusaya



Category: Naruto
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bad Puns, Bloodlust, Dark, Dubious Morality, Emotional Constipation, Eventual Romance, F/M, Identity Swap, Lack of Remorse, Lies, Manipulation, Marriage of Convenience, Names, Obsessive Behavior, Pining, Plot, Plotting, Politics, Reader-Insert, Revolution, Scheming, Sex, Smut, Sociopathy, Third Shinobi War, Unlikeable Main-Character, Violence, and a ridiculous amount of references, but a charming one, or at least a very ambiguous creep, reader is a Kiri-nin through and through
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-03-07
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:19:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenjuMizusaya/pseuds/SenjuMizusaya
Summary: It isn't your first time wandering an earth, though it definitely is the first time you are faced with a razor smile when looking at the mirror. It's the first time you run away from home as a child because you frankly don't care enough to stay. It's your first shot at being a ninja. Obviously, it was just your luck to have an inability to be your last self instead of turning into something else. And not to mention being born into a generation too early, with a Third Shinobi War to look forward to.(Yes, I have a million smiles. (Nine-hundred and ninety-nine of them have knives.))





	1. Cloak of a Name

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Naruto!

**“Men in general judge more by the sense of sight than by the sense of touch, because everyone can see but few can test by feeling. Everyone sees what you seem to be, few know what you really are; and those few do not dare take a stand against the general opinion.”**

**-Machiavelli**

* * *

 

You liked staring out of the window, soaking in the frost-covered landscapes outside, coarse grass captured in white webs of frost and stubborn firs rebelling against the bleak sky and cold air. Moisture would creep up the glass, slow and curling as it froze into a wintry layer, puffs of breath dancing in the frigid air, fading into nothingness and blending with the slivers of mist that would hover and blanket like the icy breath from a giant's maw. You enjoyed reading the books lined neatly in your father's study, and often hid a small pile of scrolls and leather-bound arcs underneath the loose plank between your new futon and wooden nightstand. You relished in watching those around you, figuring out why they moved the way they did, why they said the things they said, how their personality affected the nervous twitches or fluttering of eyes when the unnerving churning of being a victim of your unblinking stare settled; slow and deliberate like ice water. 

You were aware that such behavior wasn't ordinary for any young girl in this time and place, much less for somebody with supposedly only six winters to have lived through. It wasn't natural, but neither was the weathered notebook filled with cluttered letters and scribbles that had been jutted down in a panicked, befuddled frenzy over a year ago. To anybody else living there it must've looked like an invented secret language, but to you it was the last link to the vague memories of a past life. The first four years of life in this eastern house situated in a small village at the outskirts of the bustling capital were barely present, distant things where there was no real consciousness most of the time, occasionally waking from a sleep deep down at the bottom of an ocean. That might've been for the better though; you were aware that being the old you during those years would've hindered upbringing, learning languages and culture in general. It would've made adapting impossible. It also meant that you had lost most memories, a lazily swirling cocktail deep down a shadowed well. (You couldn't shake the feeling that you had lost more than your personality and clarity of memories along the way. Or perhaps never obtained it in this life.) 

Your previous friends had blurred away, tiptoeingly followed by family and your own name, until all remained was the knowledge that there had been a point where you weren't Amemori Ayaka, faded images of events that had lost most meaning, and a notebook filled with the ink written by the dying spasms of a past consciousness. Reading the haphazard paragraphs had made sure you retained flashes of knowledge, even if perhaps only because the sight of English stirred vague academic memories that allowed an unusual amount of understanding for what was going on around you. 

(You knew you weren't _you_ , but you wer sure you were some Ayaka either, so who were you?) 

You knew for a fact that you had been reborn into what used to be referred to as an anime. Anime didn't exist where you lived; there was material for reading and a few prototypes of manga, but clearly this was not a modern era. That didn't mean you had a book thicker than your arm filled with plots, names and a downright frantic amount of information ranging from trivia to survival tips. One Piece, Black Butler, Naruto, Baccano, Avatar, Seven Deadly Sins, and even (evidently, by then the past-you writing had delved deep enough into her memories -a last consort- to note anything coming up) Katekyo Hitman Reborn and Ao no Exorcist, among others, had been written down with details to spare. When it turned out, a little over a month ago, that it was Naruto you had been reborn into was good and bad. Good, because at least it wasn't Tokyo Ghoul or Psycho Pass. Bad, because when thinking what the anime was actually about (being brainwashed to sacrifice all for the Village and kill without remorse) it became apparent that there was no chance of gushing about favorite characters. Your first four years had done enough damage; there was no way you'd be able to think of this place as a faux world created by someone's mind and inked onto paper. 

(You were screwed, but honestly, you could only think about how ridiculous it was that you were unable to recall anything about death and rebirth itself.) 

.

You were six years old and when you looked in the mirror you realized that you were, in no way, Amemori Ayaka. Not because you were having identity issues, but rather because you disliked the name. It didn't match your appearance, the curling threads of frozen mist and thunder of your personality. You liked the way you looked, it was cute, reminded you of the ocean. Blue hair, dark royal cobalt with a texture of silk, framed your chalky pale face, the parlor just barely healthy. Deep blue tanzanites for eyes, pale lips that would twist and stretch perhaps just a little wider than natural, and a throat that would produce a hyena's laugh. You loved yourself, in the smooth and casual sort of way, and distantly you were aware that such narcissism was neither sightly nor entirely appropriate. You just didn't care very much. 

"Ayaka-chan," the calling words drifted up the stairs and through the flimsy paper screen of your door. Your new mother was a doting, caring woman with a streak of obliviousness and dreams buried unachieved. You didn't love her; not because she was a second mum but rather because you were unable to. (You loved yourself, so why was it that there was nobody else you could love?) "Dinner's ready!" 

"I'm coming," you replied, simple and chiming, and that was it. All you needed to do. Feet hit the wooden floor, softly thudding as you abandoned your post at the small window next to your futon. (Ayaka Ayaka Ayaka, colorful flower, so soft and kind and you felt like neither.) 

(You were you but not the past you.) 

(You were you but not Ayaka.) 

(You just _were_.) 

After dinner you played with the buzzing feeling of wispy chakra tendrils coursing in the pathways following your veins. It was distant and you couldn't use it, but the life force and energy remained there as a promise of future paths to take. There was nothing that could keep you chained in a house as Amemori Ayaka, another girl in a sea of girls to become another housewife in a sea of housewives, not when there were ninja and chakra and options. 

"Kaa-san," you said, smile sunny as you fisted the soft material of her casual yukata, peering up at Fumiko between your dark eyelashes from her knees. "Kaa-san, how does Kirigakure pick ninja for their Academy?" 

Her brows furrowed, the only indication your question hadn't been what she had expected nor wanted it to be. "The Clans send their kids there, some children sign on themselves, and they have a unit of Chuunin who scourge the streets, slums, orphanages and kindergartens for talent." 

 _Talent_ , you thought and smiled wider, seemingly all cheer and childish naivety, thinking only of being drafted. _More like any form ruthlessness_. Then you wondered how she knew all of that ( _another girl in a sea of girls to become a housewife in a sea of housewives_ ; Fumiko and her type didn't know such details). 

"Why does Kaa-san look bothered? Did you want to go there?" You asked with guileless eyes, lips curling a little too widely to flash hints of teeth. "Is that why Obaa-san says you are lucky to be respected? Because you were a bad daughter with unladylike dreams?"

"Hush, now," she murmured, and with practiced ease she hoisted you up and deposited you on the counter next to the sink where she was working. You supposed you actually liked her, but as your stare skimmed over the line above her brows and the hint of anxiety suddenly glinting in eyes, something shivered inside. 

"Did Kaa-san want to be somebody she wasn't, and couldn't, be?" You continued after a moment, feet swinging and eyes darting to the way the slight creases around her eyes became fixed. You felt it settle between the two of you, something pregnant and ominous of nature, and you reached out to lightly touch the skin of her cheek with small, soft fingers. Your face was the one of an unassuming toddler but your small smile was a little too sweet. "Did you want to be a _kunoichi_?" 

"Ayaka-chan." Fumiko's visage smoothened out again, as if attempting a blank look, but her shoulders were slumping and her left pinkie was twitching.

Your expression was tender. "I love you anyway."

 _Moron_. 

She smiled at the lie, life igniting back into her dark sapphire orbs, and the power of being a people person tingled just underneath your skin, soft and comfortable and a proof of your victory. You had your new-mother's coloring, but all the rest came from new-father, a slick businessman who had managed to secure a trade with Kirigakure's Supply Division despite his civilian status. 

"I love you too, Ayaka-chan," she assured, delicate hands plunging back into the soapy water. Smile somewhat vague, you stared out of the window, seeing the neighbor's frozen field and two crows scurrying about between the clumps of earth. 

You wet your lips. 

.

You were still six, all smiles and cutesy and chilling eyes, when you heaved your backpack over one shoulder and jumped out of the window you had stared out of countless times. The night was dark like a canvas of black paint with sprinkles of diamonds, the moon round and watchful. 

The ground had frozen for the first time that season, mud-parties frozen solid and tufts of grass unmoving. Every breath left a puff of mist in the frosty air, fading and dancing, the cold seeping into your clothes like water through hair. The worst of it was kept at bay by the long, gray jacket reaching your knees, the model vaguely reminiscent of a pea coat though without modernity, its material rough and sturdy though a size too big. You weren't impractical, though your vain side still complained that the one your size, though of a more delicate material, would've suited you better. 

Nobody in the rich village you had called home for almost seven years was up, streets deserted and not a ninja in sight, though that wasn't much of an indication. The air of freedom curled in your lungs for every breath, skin slowly heating the algae material of your quipao-styled shirt and matching pants, and consequently the woolen jacket, too. It made it more bearable to walk down the graveled pathway to the main road, made the weight of the weathered backpack more bearable. You only had a change of clothes, scraps of money, your leather notebook and a small amount of food with you, as well as your ability to fool people and a moral compass that had become ambiguous at best. 

Your stomach was filled with your favorite herbal tea, grainy bread and a buttery cookie too much. There was a grin curling at the corners of your mouth, jagged teeth barely visible, a trait inherited from your new father passed down from his grandmother who had been a Chuunin under the Shodaime Mizukage.

You set off without remorse of the shattered hearts you'd leave in your wake. 

.

Kirigakure's architecture largely depended on what caste you were in. At first, the majority of the Village (more like a city, but cities didn't exist) seemed to be made up of the lower middle class. Gray houses with three levels, snugly pushed against each other to fit as many houses into as little space possible, still maintaining some standard. It looked almost modern, almost, but it was still clearly Naruto-universe. Streets stretched, alleyways branching of between the neighborhoods and like a large river branching off into countless little streams, they ended in what was undeniably the largest place. It was a little cut-off, separated from the rest of the village by a ramshackle wall that seemed to be a remnant from a past war as a defense line completely ruined, but the slums stretched far and ugly like a patchwork of little rickety shacks almost completely hidden by the mist. (You wondered if Konoha had this as well, because in Naruto they sure as hell never showed such sides.) 

But on the other end of the middle class there was a lush park separating the richer neighborhoods and aristocrats' homes, where every fence was polished and every doorbell intricately carved. The shinobi center was however, the most impressive. It wasn't as gaudy and supercilious as the lords and ladies of titles' grounds, but it was sturdy and firm, cylindrical buildings rising up to the sky with verdant greenery thriving on the roofs, much like the middle class' buildings. Cobblestoned streets stretched throughout the entire Village, and like a spiderweb, they ended at the bridges crossing the dam around the Mizukage Fort, from which small rivers spanned out with water that, though certainly not to drink, could be used for jutsu and -in the slums' case- for snagging water to use for washing. The area reserved for Clan compounds could be glimpsed between the park, aristocracy and ninja offices, and even if all were careful separated the compounds were still situated the furthest away from all.

(You wondered where in the timeline you were exactly, but it didn't matter very much either way because you knew that the Third Shinobi War hadn't happened yet; when you'd made an offhanded comment about it Fumiko had said "You must mean the Second, which ended around the time you were born.") 

There were two orphanages in the part of Kiri called 'Tochuu', the apt name for the entire part of the Village that wasn't slums, ninja-business nor rich. Granted, both were in the lower spectrum of standards, but they still existed and no matter how generally neglecting and worn everything was there, it remained a place with a bed and food. (Then there were most likely more haphazard orphanages in the slums, but you had no intentions of going there; it was a once-in-no-out place.) 

"Another one?" The matron scowled lightly, though without hostility, and fastened her hard stare onto you. Her eyes were the color of dishwater, features course and tough after years of handling the place. Your eyes drifted from her calloused hands to the stubborn jut of her chin, then to the creases and lines around narrowed eyes and the pursed mouth. 

"Not one you'll have to worry about for long," said the man who had escorted you conversationally. His face was unscarred yet the look in his eyes hadn't been, and even if he had been clad in civilian clothes, the lightness of his steps, the way he moved, everything screamed ninja. Probably one recovering from a wound or just back from a mission, outside on his one day off. You wondered what his turquoise eyes had seen. "She's one of those who'll sign on for the Academy." 

You figured that even if Yagura had yet to become Mizukage, even if Kiri had yet to become the Bloody Mist and graduation wasn't a complete slaughterhouse yet, the foundations for such ruthless methods and combative style were still there. Graduations were likely still harsh, and so would training be. You spent a second longer thinking about it, only to feel annoyed when you realized that the Naruto timeline wasn't consistent at all, something you'd had an inkling about before. Zabuza was supposed to have been the last one to graduate with those brutal methods, but when he had been that age Yagura had yet to become Mizukage, let alone turn graduation into a massacre. It was all a little disconcerting, but it you weren't deterred. 

"I've never understood those who signed on," the matron sighed, but her body angled itself to allow more space at the doorway. Your pink tongue flicked out to wet your lips. 

The ninja clapped your shoulder with a scarred hand, a gesture probably meant to be assuring, but its meaning was lost to both you and the man. He turned on his heel and left without another word, eyes scanning his surroundings by habit, and you turned to the strict matron with the perfected lovable-child-who-isn't-delicate look. You had learned it was the best one; someone caring, but not clumsy nor easily breakable. Someone who could still be bended and molded and wouldn't be a bother. You almost snorted when acceptance finally ignited in her muddled eyes.

As if you'd ever let yourself become someone you're not.  _Morons_. 

Her weathered hand rested on your shoulder as she led you inside, unassuming and rightfully so, because even if you had no particular plans for anybody you _knew_ you were a nasty piece of cake. (You hadn't always been, of course, past-you had been so kind and caring, but in the life something must've gone wrong along the way.) Not that anybody knew. "How old are you?" 

"Six," you replied, taking in the worn but sturdy walls around you. You wondered what name you'd give. You wouldn't say Amemori Ayaka; not only would that make it easy for you father to trace you, but it was simply not you. Then you thought of your notebook, of all the names and plots written in there. (Someone had once written; a name is a cloak to be used and then discarded.) 

"Then you're expected to help out at lunch, you'll be cleaning the dining room with your age mates. Every room has between two and six people in it, depending on how big it is, so the room you'll be sharing will, along with the ones you bunk with, be your responsibility. Pick up after yourself, don't drag your blanket over the grounds, simple things," she instructed firmly, and you entered an empty room with long, worn tables lining the space like zebra stripes. "Lunch just finished, so most are either outside in the backyard or in their rooms." 

"Okay," you agreed with a nod, and through a window you could see the small garden. The ground was rid of any grass, most likely ripped away by years and years of running steps, but there was no soggy mud since it all frozen after the last two days' frigid temperatures. There were two stubborn cedars at the end taking up space, and a couple of boulders that seemed to have been randomly thrown in next to the trees by a giant. It was rather crowded, and you noticed there were especially many around your age; then again, you supposed that many must've lost their parents then. Kiri's orphanages didn't take in kids older than twelve, even if you could stay until you were sixteen. And not to mention, it had been pure luck and a mention that you came from just outside that had allowed you inside Kirigakure's gates at all. (That, and the fact that you were still unable to use your chakra which was obvious to any adept sensor.) 

"I'm Akiyama Takeko, but call me anything other than Akiyama-okaasan and we'll have a problem," she finally introduced herself, voice still unyielding, and led you up a flight of stairs that seemed to have seen many kids traipsing about up and down. The tapestry was flaking a bit towards the end, the pattern of cracks like rivers and spiderwebs at the edges. And then, when finally arriving outside a door, brown and with the same stiff paper screen as all the rest, she stopped and bent down to your level. Now that she was closer, you noticed her ratty shirt and hakama had seen better days but been expertly patched up.

Her voice softened marginally, the stress and daggers in her eyes gone and replaced by something almost maternal; "And who are you, little girl? What's your name?" 

Your notebook weighed in your bag, names and identities like cards in your head, and you decided that you could call yourself whatever you wanted to call yourself. Create yourself. So for a split-second you saw yourself inside your head, with your silky blue hair and matching cobalt eyes, the off-playful smile and the way you'd chuckle. You said; "Mukuro." 

"Mukuro?" Akiyama repeated, and gave you another long stare. You had though of Katekyo Hitman Reborn's Mukuro, but you supposed that telling her your name, which meant 'corpse', could still hit like being slapped by dead fish. Originally it had been a first name, but you were turning it into your surname.

You smiled, small and without teeth. 

"Mukuro," you confirmed, and thought about more anime and manga from your notebook, all the while giving her a faint smile. Your eyes held a swath of mischief within a universe of seriousness. "Mukuro Hanamiya." 

And that was how you managed to combine Katekyo Hitman Reborn's antagonistic-protagonist Mukuro Rokudo with Kuroko no Basuke's genius sociopath Hanamiya Makoto. You probably should've said Hanamiya Mukuro instead, because now last names and given names were a mess, but you could live with that. Akiyama seemed to have come to a similar conclusion about your name, but didn't comment on it. 

"Well, Mukuro-chan, this is your room," she said after she had stood up, smoothing any creases of her clothes, and pushed the door open. It was a rather spartan room, with four futons laid out against the wall with a small cupboard not much bigger than a nightstand each, where everything personal seemed to be held. Clothes as well. The girl who slept her before moved out two days ago, so your place is the one under the window." 

It wouldn't be a good spot, you instantly mused; it would mean fresh air, but also more cold and light. But you gave her a thankful look, almost serene, even if the way your lips curved was perhaps little more tense than usual, and bowed gracefully; "Thank you, Akiyama-okaasan." 

Her hand seemed to twitch, almost as if she wanted to pat your head, but that would be too affectionate so she didn't. She left, gently sliding the door close behind her to give you some privacy. Maybe she thought you had just lost your parents, you didn't know, but you were still grateful to acquaintance yourself with your new home. The futon wasn't soft at all when you sat down on it, the blanket thick but ratty to the touch, and the pillow rather thin. Your clothes were quickly stuffed into the small space inside the nightstand; an extra pair of rough spun pants, two worn shirts, the quality jacket and underwear. At the Amemori's you had clothes to spare and of fine quality, but here they'd tear and be in the way, not to mention gain attention. Richer kids losing parents were taken in by aunts or uncles most of the time, and you had no intention of being the odd one out for something so stupid.

You were quick to gobble down the last biscuit you had, the very last food from home. You didn't have any more money, that had been spent on getting yourself lunch after a meager dinner which was followed by skipping breakfast. That had been yesterday, and this morning you had finished everything except for that cookie. It wasn't much, but you had managed and gotten here on those scarce rations. 

Just like you had planned. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMAKE:  
> "Mukuro... Mukuro Rin."  
> You weren't certain whether you had intended to make a reference to Ao no Exorcist's main character Okumura Rin or to Free!'s sharklike Matsuoka Rin, but the fact remained that you had just given yourself the same name as a character from Naruto. Well shit.  
> .  
> .  
> Okay, so I almost made you say Kakashi but lols, that would've been ridiculous. (And not to mention Light, Riko, Mikasa, Akane, Sakura, Ino, etc etc etc). I promise I won't have too many other name reference-ish stuff, but it might happen once in a while that she comes up with ridiculous cover names. (I can't wait until she tells Namikaze Minato a fake name the first time they meet. Probably "Voiii! I'm Superbi Squalo!")  
> Finefinefine, that won't happen. I think. But still. I'm sure she'll love making cover names...  
> Although, this is a Naruto fanfic so I'll keep it a Naruto fanfic^^


	2. Flowerbed of Thorns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I had so much planned for this chapter that nothing happened, basically. Either you can say that it's a racing chapters packed with plot build or you can say it's pure, flat, dull bullshit.  
> I liked parts of it, but I didn't even cover half of what I had wanted.... oh well, enjoy!

**"One who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived."**

**-Machiavelli**

* * *

 

"So you're the new girl. How old are you, seven?" 

You looked up. The girl who had spoken stood in the doorway, with sleek black hair, snowy skin and deep mocha eyes, clad in the simple, standard orphanage clothes consisting of a dull, pale-slate blue jumper, gray pants and brown shoes. She also donned a surprisingly suiting waist jacket -new and probably self-earned, if you could compare it to the old and worn material of her other clothes- of deep magenta with buttons embroidered with a deep, bloody crimson. You judged her to be around fourteen, maybe fifteen, and even if her jacket was the only clothing that wasn't ratty (and compared to many others' outfits, it was clear she took good care of it), she had an odd aura demanding respect. 

She was clearly civilian, but you were a people person, a social genius, and felt your skin prickle underneath her watchful gaze. She knew her way around, was at the top of the food chain. 

"Six," you replied after a moment, and stood up from your bed underneath the window. You wondered if it was thanks to her that glass was still clean and not smudged beyond repair. Then you executed a perfect bow, although not very deep; "My name is Mukuro Hanamiya." 

The raven looked at you for a moment longer, face still schooled almost blandly, but finally her lips curved into a semblance of a smile. "Welcome to room nine, Mukuro-chan. I'm Higuchi Kazuko." 

Two others appeared on either side of her, identically clad in orphanage clothes but, not at all like bodyguards but rather curious friends, and you guessed they were your roommates. The one with the wide coral eyes, perhaps twelve years old, and a bush of luscious golden curls framing her soft face bowed and breathed, her voice even more cotton-like than her appearance; "It's a pleasure meeting you." 

An older girl bowing to you, let alone deeply, was almost surprising. The last one, who was in between the two others' age, was all height and slim limbs, an almost birdlike bone structure making up her skinny stature. Her hair and eyes were both ordinary brown, rather dark, but the way she peered down at you from between dark lashes was by far the most regal and composed out of all of them. Kazuko glanced at them; "This is Mukuro Hanamiya," she introduced briefly, and then turned to you, pointing at the blond first and then the brunette. "This is Naomi, and the tall one is Jun." 

The lack of last names wasn't very surprising, because babies left at the doorsteps almost never had surnames, but it was still a stamp on the forehead lasting until you got married. The brunette's nose stuck just a little higher into the air, a brush away from condescending, apparently not liking the jab at her height. Naomi only fisted the weathered material of her Kiri-blue shirt, pale-rosy eyes firmly planted on her shoes. You greeted; "It's nice meeting you." 

Kazuko gave you another half-grin, apparently satisfied with what she saw, and sauntered into the room. "The futon furthest to the left is mine, so you better not be the type who rolls out of their bed because then you'll end up bumping into me. Naomi-chan sleeps in the one at your other side, and Jun-chan has the one against the righthand wall. Jun-chan and I do the cleaning, so you and Naomi-chan just have to make sure everything is kept neat and organized. She'll teach you if there's anything you need to know." 

You glanced at the wide-eyed girl who had wrapped her arms around her legs, seated in the middle of her futon with her shoulders hunched. Jun's proud stature was the opposite, crosslegged and with a straight back, chin held high. And then there was Kazuko, relaxed and leaning against the wall, but you didn't fail to notice the small scars littering her knuckles like crisscrossing white nicks. It was the type you got when regularly fist fighting, front teeth cutting your skin when punching someone's face in. 

You smiled, slight and warm, but inside you felt like a barracuda was circling in the lake of your mind. (Your personality was breathtakingly carved ice, surrounded by thundering mist the color of deepest ink, wispy tendrils rolling and and grasping and curling. You wondered if it would reflect in your chakra.)

.

It didn't take more than a week before your face had blended into the orphanage's mass. Most hadn't even noticed there was somebody new to begin with. Your own clothes had been kept inside the cramped space of the nightstand, saved for later since you had on purpose chosen ones a little too big, and clothed yourself in the orphanage clothes. You checked room nine together with the shy Naomi every morning and afternoon, made sure everything was in its rightful place, and cleaned the dining room together with the other six, seven and eight year olds after lunch. There had been one point where a boy in his early teens had tried to take your food -which explained why he and his friends were the only ones with any layers of softness to their skin- but Kazuko had put her foot down (or, rather her fist which had been slammed onto the table), and that had been that. 

The week turned into a month, then into two, three, four, your seventh birthday came and went without fuss except for the fact that you had stopped saying you were six and said you were seven instead, and you had made a tentative friendship with two boys a year older than you, both in the Academy, even if your initial intentions had solely been to get better and have an idea of what waited ahead. One was called Hajime and the other Kuro. The former unwittingly taught you basic taijutsu and the latter would let you help him read, which meant you already learned the theoretical basics. Apparently chakra affected the weather, which was how the climate across this world could be so odd to understand for you. 

(You could be a horribly person and you knew it.)

Your notes about individuals had payed off for the first time, too, because Kuriarare Kushimaru was two years your senior and already about to finish his last year of Academy, which usually took four years to do, together with three others who were the right age. You only had a month to go before the entrance checkups. It was a little unfair, for Clan kids didn't need to take it to get in, but you supposed it would be useless to let them do so; they had received special training ever since they could walk.

You blessed that one kunoichi on your father's side, because thanks to her your chakra coils wouldn't be quite as small as the other civilian borns', even if just a marginal difference. The real gift of it lay with the fact it would be easier to expand your chakra reserves. You'd never be a ninjutsu master, but you wouldn't have quite as much trouble with chakra depletion as Haruno Sakura had (would have?). 

Kuro had a broken leg from kenjutsu practice and was wobbling around after the Academy nurse had preformed simplistic medical ninjutsu on him, not allowed to attend kenjutsu nor taijutsu for a week. He was oblivious to your musings about chakra and kept reading; "-though during the last months of the Second Shinobi War, unrest between Kirigakure and Iwagakure no Sato was finally resolved when the Sandaime Tsuchikage and Sandaime Mizukage took over their respective pre- pre- _predecessor's_ post. A steady trading system has been set up, though the biggest problem with transportation is the vast distances and unfriendly landscapes." He paused, brows furrowing, and you felt the question coming. "Hanamiya-chan, what exactly do they mean when they write  _unfriendly_ landscapes?" 

"Take out the map," you instructed briefly, looking up from where you had been patching a tear in your dark pants. You certainly were no seamstress, but fixing holes was something you could do. The calloused pad of your finger traced a direct line between Iwagakure and Kirigakure. "First there is the sea, then you have to go through the paperwork of getting through the Land of Fire, who are more than distrusting towards us, not to mention their climate is a lot warmer and most of it is covered by forest. After that you have to struggle with the Kusa-nin who are never happy to let foreigners -let alone ones affiliated to a Village- in despite having set up agreements, so there's always a fuss at their borders about documents. It's mostly covered in grass but with forests too, and then you finally arrive at the borders of the Land of Earth. It's dry, filled with rocky mountains and little, but stubborn, vegetation. Our trade is mutually beneficial since our products are so different, but it's a struggle to keep it up." 

Kuro was silent for a moment, mulling over your words as he watched the route you had pointed out, messy bangs falling in front of his eyes. Then he nodded; "You're pretty smart." 

You glanced at him, thinking he was right, but was still relatively truthful towards you semi-friend when you opened your mouth; "I just have a good memory. You read something like that to me a couple of days ago." 

"Oh," he mumbled, and kept reading about the post-war arrangements between the Hidden Villages. "Takigakure and Kusagakure-" 

The curve of your smile was too sharp to be entirely childish. 

.

Three weeks later, Kushimaru returned from the Academy with a Kiri-forehead protector. There had been four persons when leaving, of which the other three had been mentoring Hajime and Kuro, consequently you too. You had been close enough for the three of them to call you _imouto_. 

(The final clue for the graduation exam was that while it wasn't a sole-survivor slaughter yet, casualties were common.)

.

"They were good boys," Akiyama managed to say between irregular breaths, over a hundred children gathered behind her as they stared at the fresh, small little graves barely distinguishable through the mist. The fog was unusually thick, pressing against your skin and coating everything in its damp haze. Naomi was holding your hand, had done so since seeing the tears gathering in your eyes. 

"They were nice and taught me so much," you whispered to her, and you meant it, while a nameless girl you knew had been close to them hugged you tightly, pressing your face against the flatness of her chest, skinny arms wrapped around in a vice grip as she sobbed into your shoulder. "They acted like older brothers."

"It'll get better, Mukuro-chan," Kazuko assured firmly, though not unkindly, standing just behind you. She hadn't known them yet she was still attending the makeshift funeral. Incidentally, you had been there with Akiyama when two Chuunin delivered their corpses. One had been done in by a straight cut to his throat, head almost completely severed, while the second had suffered more, if the countless cuts and bruises marring his skin had been anything to go by. In the end he had suffered a finishing blow to his stomach. The third's chest had caved in under a Suiton jutsu.

"A minute of silence, children," commanded Akiyama, and you bowed your head. 

The second you were alone in room nine you stopped crying, marine eyes regaining their unholy gleam, and you fished out your notebook. 

( _"They acted like older brothers." They had considered themselves to be. Too bad you hadn't_.)

.

The day before you had left for the Academy entrance exam had been an unusual one. Not because your roommates had been different -Naomi was still a shy little thing, Jun acted like an aspiring noblewoman, and Kazuko controlled the room, not to mention corridor, with an iron fist- and the other inhabitants had still been themselves -the plump Shiroumaru who never seemed to loose fat was still surrounded by his shady gang, and the bullied cliques were still scattered around in little trios or quartets (never less and never more) and tried to have as little presence as possible- but rather because the sun had been shining. A watery light, for sure, and only for an hour, but it had reflected against the moist cobblestones and damp surfaces and made Kirigakure shine in pale gold and white sunshine. In the slums it must've started smelling horribly, since who knew what was rotting in their alleys, but in Tochuu and the rest of Kiri it was cleaner and more bearable. 

The day you'd breach off the civilian life in favor of a ninja life was the most ordinary one yet. The mist was thick and moist, few people on the streets and the first signs of true, warm spring seeping through and chasing away the lingering chill of harsh winter. It had been the first day without waking up to a needlework of frost decorating the window, but you had barely noticed. 

Morning routine was ordinary as well. Breakfast consisted of a tasteless, gray pudding a mockery of porridge, washed down with lukewarm water meant to be hot since it had been boiled to kill bacteria, but was always poured much too late. Kushimaru and the other two ninja of the orphanage -who were fresh Chuunin soon to move out once they'd saved enough money- would sit at their own end of a table at the back, Shiroumaru's makeshift yakuza gang a few places to their left. That table would be the first to get food. After that there was your table, or rather Kazuko's, you had simply been engrained there as her cute little roommate. 

 _Morons_. 

As if 'cute little roommate' could describe your ingenious self, if you could word it that way. 

But you offered them smiles and exactly the right words they'd need to hear, all the while occasionally kicking a boy or girl once a month as an underlying foundation and threat that you weren't a complete pushover. That equilibrium did wonders for your stay at Kirigakure's Tochuu district orphanage. You were in the largest district, the lower middle class, a relatively ordinary girl at first glance (first ten glances and fifty conversations, you figured), soon untraceable since there were hundreds of orphans in Kiri, not to mention the uncountable amount of urchins, and as Mukuro Hanamiya you really _had_ created the person known as you. 

It would be a lie to say you weren't proud of yourself. 

The Academy was an oval building with a rounded roof, the type that was built not to collapse underneath the pressure of deep snow, with rectangular windows set in worn, stubborn stone frames. It had three floors, all sturdy and spacious, with a corridor cutting through each with classrooms on either side of it. A low wall separated soggy Academy grounds from the rest of Kiri, with thick poles and dartboard-like targets set up for training on one side and a vaguely rounded field on the other seeming to resemble a running pitch but could be converted into a parkour track. Above the entrance, katakana had been carved into the stone and repainted in dark brown, almost black, and you vaguely made out;

_Perception for the mind,_

_Tenacity for the soul,_

_Strength for the body,_

_To overcome weakness and fulfill duty_

_without remorse and bring greatness._

It really did suit Kirigakure. All Villages had similar value -a quick mind, resilient soul and capable body- but the exact words chosen as well as the valued characteristic in ninja would vary, though not by much. You exhaled slowly, your seven year old body slowly relaxing the tightly corded muscles, and walked inside. It was silent, but not suffocatingly so. The floors and walls were the same drab gray as the rest of the Village, not counting the browner slums, and the familiarity almost felt homely. 

Almost. You were here for a reason. 

At the end of the hallway, one of the doors were open instead of shut and hostile, a gentle glow beckoning you. You heard muffled voices, quiet and distant, and when you arrived you saw another three students waiting stiffly in the seats at the desks, all spread out as if sitting close would mean getting contagious sickness. One was a buff boy who seemed to have come from the upper tiers of Kiri, his dark hair glossy and thick and with a body betraying he lacked nothing in terms of comfort at home. The second was a spindly girl with frizzy orange hair in a messy ponytail and large blue eyes staring at you from between a tousled fringe, a heap of small, soft dolls strewn upon the table in front of her. The last was an androgynous-looking beanstalk with ashen hair and dead eyes of deep steel. You were rather early, since the examinations to see if the candidates were physically capable of even giving the Academy a shot were open all day, so you almost snorted when considering yourself lucky you had come when there had yet to be a mass of potential students crowding the room. 

Or something. You didn't care too much. 

The one with the soulless gray eyes looked out of the window again, while the aristo turned his nose up at your orphanage clothes. You mused it must be painful for him to be in a place filled with commoners, and wondered if you could make him squeak as loudly as he'd do at the sight of a rat. You resolved to sit down a few seats behind the ginger-haired girl with the pale eyes, slipping into a seat all at the back, and waited for your turn. 

The first one to get up was the snob, walking through the small door in the front door leading to the medical room while the young boy who had been inside before left with a fixed expression. His limbs were thin and shaking, though you doubted it was the malnutrition that had thrown him off balance. Probably hadn't been accepted into the Academy; there were plenty of urchins and orphanage kids who signed in just for that free, _warm_ meal every lunch. You tilted your head as you watched him, and smiled pleasantly when he glanced at you. His eyes were large, especially in comparison to the sunken qualities of his face. He left the room with a hunched back, and you wet your lips. 

The ginger continued playing with her finger-sized dolls, tying them together at the fraying seams until they were one big, disfigured creature filled with grasping hands, lolling heads, staring eyes and frozen smiles. Something inside you churned, not too unpleasantly, wisps of something almost contemplative spreading inside. The dead-eyed boy at the front row still stared outside with a vacuumed expression and eerie aura. He left next, replaced by a new girl with dark crimson hair spilling down her back and onyx eyes gleaming in her pale, rather pretty, face who sat down with a bored expression. She was different, it tingled in the air and set something off inside. Most likely a girl from a shinobi family, since she still had to be checked. 

Eventually, the dead-eyed boy come out again (you were confident he had been accepted, since there was just a hint of smugness tiptoeing at the corner of is pale mouth) and the odd ginger stood up and left after stuffing the ugly doll inside the large pocket of her ratty pullover. Outside the mist thickened even more now that the stubborn hold of winter was finally being completely molten away by the creeping heat, ice from the ground melting and the water evaporating -too slowly to been seen or noticed, but the fog gave it away. Not for the first time, you wondered what smell would end up emanating in the slums once the heat spread to the rot. 

Another two boys showed up while you were waiting, the last arriving while you were on your way to the door and passed the doll girl who was smiling absently and undoing a thread from the head of a stuffed doll. Just before you slid the rough door shut behind you, paddling footsteps shuffling and echoing, you met the familiar-looking redhead's dark eyes. You smiled, too pleasant but unable to hide the off tilt to it, and she stared back with a bland look.

Then the door closed and you turned around with a small, serene _thing_ on your face and faced the two medical ninja with steady eyes. The older one was in charge, instantly motioning for you to sit down on the stool with a clinical look on her face as if she did this day in and day out. The assistant, also a woman though much younger and less course, held a clipboard and gave you a soft, pitying look, as if willpower alone would talk you out of giving being a ninja a shot. 

You gave her your deluxe soft smile. _Moron_. 

"Name, age, date of birth," commanded the middle-aged raven, peering at you over her half-rimmed spectacles, organizing the tools on her desk with ease without letting the clinical browns of her eyes drift from your shoulders, arms, elbows, wrists, hands. 

"Mukuro Hanamiya, seven years old, born the thirteenth of March," you replied quickly, and let her prod at your ribs. The pads of her fingers, soft and surprisingly gentle despite the mean-looking jabs at your body, glowed faint in green as they rested against your heart to assess. They drifted to your right, and your insides tingled unnervingly at the intrusion of non-hostile chakra. You entertained the thought of asking her about herself, just to see if she'd actually answer. 

Her fingers retracted after poking against your knees and ankles, and proceeded to press the palm of her hand against your forehead. Having chakra seeping into your brain was the oddest experience yet, feeling your hackles raise and alarm bells blare when it touched your most prized weapon. It disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she finally checked your others organs and chakra coils. You looked straight into the assistant's murky eyes, the teenager in question checking things off her list. Apparently nothing wrong had been found with you yet. 

"Any shinobi relatives?" Asked the med-nin, standing up and motioning for you to do the same while she picked up a measuring tape. 

"Grandmother," you replied, but the older woman only shot her assistant a flat stare and said; 

"Small, unused chakra reserves, but with walls that would allow considerate expanding. Second-generation, single cause inheritance." 

The assistant scribbled like her life depended on it, glanced up at the tape, and proceeded to jut down your height as well. Then the medic proceeded to usher you into a low, square device that you identified as a prototype for a mass scale. The number it showed was in kilograms, just under twenty, and it was oddly comforting to see something familiar after years of living here. You averted your gaze from the softly glowing, red numbers as you stepped away. The only sound in the room was the frantic note taking. 

You went through a test of sight, two questions of which one was allergies and the other standard of living, and got a whack to the head after you had attempted to look at what the assistant was writing. 

"You're expected at the Academy at eight tomorrow morning, now off you go," decided the medic as she signed something at the bottom of a page labeled _Hanamiya Mukuro_. 

"It's Mukuro Hanamiya," was all you said and pointed at the paper, smiled with a hint of teeth in all the wrong ways, and left while the assistant quickly corrected the mistake with dark algae eyes wide. The redhead passed you on your way out, and for a moment you caught the faint smell of shampoo. Rich enough to buy one with smell, but not rich enough to get silken clothes. 

You met Kirigakure's cold, misty spring head on with a whiff of cherries in your nose. 

.

You didn't believe in fate. However, you were very much inclined to believe in luck. The students who you had waited with in the waiting room had all been accepted into your class, and on top of that, it didn't take more than a few days before it became apparent none of them lacked in potential. But, more than that, your notebook had been useful once again. 

The redheaded girl whom you had judged to be from a shinobi family (a correct guess, as expected) was none other than Ringo Ameyuri. Despite not being from a Clan, the advantage she and the other children with ninja parents -or even from a few generations of shinobi- had was more than noticeable. That was why each grade was divided into three groups, and as someone with admittedly little experience you had been kicked into the third. 

Ringo was in the second. Clan kids were almost consequently in the first. The ginger girl and phantom boy were in the third, together with various pale faced and thin limbed children -or round faced and fat bodied _brats_ from civilian aristocrats- and even then it was apparent who had come for ninjahood itself or the food (alternatively, the glory if you were a rich one). Even the classrooms were divided in two. There were rows of tables with a single aisle cutting through in the middle. The right side, near the wall, had larger chairs with more comfort and a radiator-like pipe built into the wall. The other side was spartan with rough benches and tables next to the frigid windows. 

You had been put into the worst group of the worst, only because you came from an orphanage, but the ones you sat with weren't the only ones unhappy. The baby faced aristos were miffed to be lumped into the same group as the ratty-clothed commoners, and many who had expected better placing spent quite some time sulking before it was beat out of them. The teacher, Arata, who had gotten the third and most mismatched group was cleary used to the rift, with a habit of slamming a mean-looking bamboo stick down onto the table with an echoing _snap_ every time he wasn't satisfied with the behavior. His hair was dark with streaks of gray at the temples despite not looking old otherwise, with ordinary and course features excluding his vibrant yellow eyes.

The lesson commenced with a snap of his stick. Silence ensued, practiced on the duller side and begrudging on the more colorful and silken side. 

You tilted your head to the side to catch a better glimpse of Arata. He leveled the entire class with one of his special long, hard stares that prickled through your skin and straight into your heart, and spoke in a rough, baritone voice that had breathed the toxic fumes of poison battles once too much; "There's only one Academy here, so deal with it."

Even if he reminded you and the others you were one big class, you couldn't help but to glance at the aisle separating you from the velvety cushions and comfortable seats. It was horribly frank and confronting to see, especially since the wealth was right next to you in an almost ridiculous show. You didn't flinch, mutely stared at your relaxed hands clasped together and waited for the morning lecture in basic anatomy.

The girl in front of you smelled bad.


	3. Riptide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much!  
> The more I think about this story and the Naruto universe, the more I can't help but to think that it's depressingly unrealistic when it comes to politics and power. The series are meant for the fun, adventure and laughs, but it failed to capture many intricacies. For example, Hashirama made a great Hokage in terms of battle prowess and being loved, but as a leader of a Village I can't find anything in particular he'd be good at except for scaring away enemies at first sight. Politics? No....  
> I know that in the series both Naruto and Hashirama somehow just happened to possess "that something" that made other leaders respect them even if they _weren't cut out for politics at all_. In that aspect, in our definition of politics, the only competent Kage I can think of at the moment is Tobirama. Read Machiavelli to get a better look into politics if you want to -but that's just a philosophy/history/politics-interested girl's opinion- because honestly, I love the Naruto series to the point of fanaticism, but even if the timeline wasn't a complete mess it still has its flaws.  
>  Also, uhm... another bullshit chapter filled with plot build? Apparently people like this story even if I'm going super slowly, so I guess that's okay? Maybe? I'll try to get more serious and real the next chapter; all the foundations have been laid, anyway^^

**"Where the willingness is great, the difficulties cannot be great."**

**-Machiavelli**

* * *

 

Spring was a moist season in Kiri. When it wasn't a fog party, it would rain. The mist would fade into lingering tendrils at the street corners, the sky would be revealed only to be dark and heavy with rainfall, and then there would either only be a light drizzle to coat the houses or a downpour to thoroughly shower the entire Village. The orphanage seemed to never quite dry, the air cool and humid, a pain to wake up to when fingers and toes had numbed during the few nights when temperatures dropped more. Inside the Academy it was different, dry and almost lukewarm, with hot bullion with grainy bread served at lunch to all those who did not have bentos. You had started the Academy towards the end of April, three weeks ago, and the sudden bloom of spring hung more heavily in the air as May started. Rarely you woke up with a chill anymore, though nights weren't as mild as the day, the air still thick but now layered with the scents of lush greenery growing at every available place. 

Maybe it was because of your notebook and futuristic dreams about all sorts of historical chapters from your own world, but learning all the theories went easily. They were only half of the work, and only applied because almost everybody in class were complete beginners, but you didn't pride yourself on being Mukuro Hanamiya through and through for nothing. Taijutsu was also a strong suit, if only because you had spent the last months with your ex-brothers-who-weren't-your-brothers, because your aptitude for it was just a little above average. Something that wouldn't be a weakness, but definitely not a future forte. Ninjutsu was passable, too, even if it was only basics such as getting the chakra system going and sticking drops of water to the forehead, and genjutsu had only been vaguely explained so far. Bukijutsu and Kenjutsu, however, were finally styles that came easily. Throwing kunai, senbon and shuriken went fine, but it was close-range combat where you found your affinity, whether it be working swords or brandishing spears. 

All in all, at the rate you were learning, you had chances of being bumped up a group the next term, and eventually skip a year. Perhaps. You weren't Uchiha Itachi when it came to talent, and you knew your perception of the world was as narcissistic as it was disillusioned, but you knew others had noticed your surprisingly rapid improvement for a civilian born-and-raised. You itched to know whether your advancement would continue, grow more, or simply.... disappear into the crowd as a failure.  

You kept tabs on the ginger haired girl and the phantom boy, too. Her name was Kaede, and his was Gorou. You liked neither, but didn't particularly dislike them. They were age mates with similar goals and agreeable personalities, and it brought forth memories of a feeling reminiscent of soft, microwaved cotton.

So you flashed them your best smile and wondered if they'd survive the Academy at all. 

"It's important to remember our roots," said Arata with a calm, baritone voice echoing through the otherwise silent classroom. Many of the aristocrats had quit, with the consequences of the velvet cushions and comfortable chairs moved back too the teacher's room, since apparently it wasn't worth it to stay. You weren't surprised, and neither were the teachers who went through it was a bland sort of ease that told you it had been expected. 

It made something in your throat burn and ideas fry in your sizzling repulsion, not at the instructors who gave up their comfort to placate the soft-skins but those with the inherited power themselves. The blatant nepotism stirred something inside you; apparently you had some sense of justice and righteousness, although morality was something you didn't have qualms against parking at the door when it suited you. The end justified the means, after all, as long as the actions didn't lose sight of the goal (the way Danzou had forgotten what he was actually protecting). 

"Kirigakure is where we come from and where we'll return, the one place you can be accepted for whom you are," he continued the lecture. Next to you, Kaede's fingers dropped a thread from her doll, the skin too coated with angry nicks and bruises to keep up. 

You stared down at your own hands, slouching casually with a calm, soft expression almost serene in nature. You didn't doubt the same subtle -or not so subtle- brainwashing happened in Konoha and the other Villages. Your own skin was calloused and littered with little red scrapes between the thumb and index finger after a shuriken practice, the pads of your fingers rough. Overall they were in a good shape, at least in comparison, and warm. 

Gorou was pulling someone's hair, strand by strand slowly plucked away, clinical as if he were plucking teh feathers from a hen, the shivering girl in front of him shaking and mute with fear. You almost thought he was smiling. 

"Kirigakure has created you, will continue to nurture you, and it's our job as ninja to allow it to thrive and continue being a home to countless of people, to make sure it can continue creating ninja," he spoke, words like silken ribbons tying around ears and minds with deceiving softness hiding their poison. You were immune, but Kiri was still your home. There couldn't have been a better place for someone like what you had become. 

(You enjoyed every second of being Janus, if only because you had ideas and options, because having a soft conscience would've sent you into a suicidal depression long ago.)

"You are the future protectors, out future heroes-" 

His face was still strict and composed despite the slight force strengthens his words. Some around you sat straighter at the honeyed bait, at the inspiring invitations, the idea of being someone special and not another street rat or simpleton. You had to admit, he was good at handling them. 

You were certain Arata was thinking about the graduation slaughter.

The frost and ink of your soul swirling in an intricate dance inside, you sat more appropriately in your chair and smiled. 

Kaede whispered, hushed and excited in her own special way with trembling fingers and glassy eyes; "I'll become someone important." 

Naruto had been one in a million wanting to become someone worthy of noticing. Someone people would respect, admire, or even fear. Someone people could look at and feel awe in their hearts. 

As if everyone had a chance to do that. Morons. 

"Like what?" You asked with genuine curiosity, your smile widening and flashing just a hint of jagged teeth. Your intentions could've curdled milk. 

"I want to be a Jounin, one of the advisors on the Kage council," she mused out loud with a faint smile, battered fingers returning to their tying. Her skin quality wasn't as good at yours, cracking easily in the cold with dry, pink blotches blooming across her knuckles, but shuriken really wasn't her forte either. "And then I'll massacre the yakuza gang controlling my neighborhood who always demand money." 

Kaede, you had learned, came from the part of the slums that had at some point been a ghetto, with just enough governmental intervention to be considered a township. The slums were divided into two, she came from the better part. Nobody in the Academy came from the worse half. Nobody was good enough. 

Gorou, on the other hand, came from a small family in a rickety apartment block rich enough to have warm water from the taps and rudimental radiators in the living room, luxuries you could only dream of. He had killed the neighbor's dog a month ago after being woken up by it every morning at five for a week, and been recruited into the Academy after choking a trespassing kid with gang affiliations with its rotting intestines. Such behavior would always be seen as horrible, immoral and disgusting, but even Konoha would've drafted someone like that. (At least for ANBU.) That was just how all systems worked, if such beasts could be put to use, then why not take that golden opportunity? 

Kaede claimed she was in love with him. You would smile and tell her that was very cute and how certain you were he liked her back. (On your way home you'd wonder if he'd end up killing her during graduation.)

 .

You couldn't stay impartial when it came to the Clan kids. They certainly deserved being in the first string, at least for the time being since some showed less prowess than others and some from lower groups showed enough talent to eventually move up. Their clothes were of silk, cotton and wool, all spun finely to be soft and comfortable, and it didn't matter if they tore because they had plenty more at home, not to mention their better clothes were never brought to the Academy. You found it hard to imagine what their finer clothing must've looked like. 

It was only during lunch break any interaction would happen, rare as it was, and then it would only be the first occasional taunts or mute glares. Only those from old shinobi families would find themselves in the cliques of straight-backed, high-nosed children and preteens, at least for good reasons, since some of the haughtier had a nerve-grating habit of picking on a few select students from poor, civilian backgrounds. 

You didn't care too much about that, but the sight of them stirred something both hungry and disdainful inside. It reminded you of the filthy rich and proper Amemori home, where etiquette had been ingrained since you could gurgle in baby speech. It reminded you of predatory felines, of jaguars and tigers. It reminded you of the ever present gap you needed to close. Reminded you of dreams and ideas and wishes, _everything._ You could understand why Yagura's Tobito-influenced decision gained support with the right phrasing and manipulative speeches, but didn't think they all deserved to be slaughtered.

 _You_ wanted to be as great as _they_ could be. 

You needed to drive Tobito away from Kiri, and if the the worst happened and push came to shove, it would have to happen the same way it had happened in the original; a bloody civil war to kill Yagura and end his tainting rule. Only much earlier to preserve Kirigakure's power. You didn't have anything particular against Kiri's favoring of ruthlessness, but a massacre as graduation and gory internal conflicts from all directions? To you that was all one big waste. 

But to even change anything like that, you had a long way to go. 

Ringo Ameyuri was the type who didn't give two shites in a bag about bowing and flattering Clan kids. She blatantly ignored them and spoke to them when it suited her, such as when demanding to be let into class since they tended to block the corridor to see how the others would react. She treated them only a little better than the ones from less prestigious backgrounds, who she didn't think highly of. She wasn't arrogant, by any means, but she wasn't humble either. 

You were hell bent on getting to knew her at least a little. You had the perfect plan, meant to be executed during lunch, and it probably would've worked out perfectly. (You didn't consider yourself amazing for nothing.)

And then Hoozuki Mangetsu happened. 

You had been aware there was a talented Hoozuki in the first group -there were actually seven Hoozuki in total in the four Academy years- but you hadn't even known exactly who that one talent was. It hadn't been a priority when your two closest and only friends (and that term was used very loosely in this case) were either a sociopath with violent tendencies or an unhinged doll freak. (You quite liked them, in a detached sort of way one could admire a painting.) Not to mention that you needed to get in shape and speed learn skills in about every area possible, coaxing Hajime and Kuro into taking you even more seriously, handling the fussing matron who futilely tried to rope you back into the civilian life, and appeasing Kazuko to keep peace. 

The girl Gorou picked on was also bullied by the Clan kids. Her name was Momo -as you had learned when kindly correcting her taijutsu stance in a bout of your charming, ingenious shrewdness (you could add wicked, lovable, witty, etcetera etcetera, but then you'd be able to fill your notebook with self love so that was a bad idea) and her only redeeming qualities were her mild manners and good aim. 

The cafeteria was a large, spacious room with sturdy walls and a low roof. Long, rough tables lined the room like zebra stripes, one of the few instances when all three groups interacted, but even then it was divided as ever. You walked towards the same table you always walked to, with Kaede to your right and Gorou disinterestedly strolling to your left, sat down where you always sat down. You watched Ringo Ameyuri from your peripheral vision, where the redhead sat down a few tables down with her clique of shinobi-bred friends, bento boxes ready. It felt odd, the way everyone was crammed together to eat as if it were just another school, but you didn't mind. 

There was a muffled shriek only a few steps down, and you turned just in time to watch as Momo flail helplessly and face plant with the floor after a jeering kick to her bony back. A hand, soft but calloused attached to a muscled forearms, so Clan in nature it made your skin crawl in ways both good and bad, reached out and like a rabbit, she bolted. Gorou stiffened and Kaede shifted, but you only stared at the small, gritty hands fisting the material of your shirt while you had prepared to leave to get your soup after the signal was given. Momo was clinging onto you, and the only reason you could think of was that you reputation as top-of-the-class had suddenly backfired. You had showed just the right amount of interest in your classmates to come across as approachable and cool, but apparently that meant you could be snagged and used as a shield. 

A sneer burned in the back of your throat, ugly and disdainful, but you gave her a chilling smile and gently, so gently, pried her small fingers from your dull blue shirt. Gorou shifted behind you, his granite stare boring into you and then staring at Momo. Your tongue pressed against the back of your teeth, almost drawing blood from the sharp ends, but unlike Clan kids you didn't have a file for sharpening them. "Momo," you said, lack of suffix disrespectful, yet she huddled closer, a moth to the light (but she was a fly and you a spider).

Kaede made a girly, questioning sound, cocking her orange head to the side. Momo in question looked ready to bury her face into the scratchy wool of your polo, and almost inaudibly whispered; "Mukuro-san, Mukuro-san, Mukuro-san-" 

There was power within reach, handed on a platter, but it was based on flattery, originating and laced with fear, not for you but caused by someone else, a deer running from a lion to a tiger. Your hands, small and childish, but in better shape than hers, slid to her shoulders and pressed against her flimsy tissue through the ratty shirt. She went silent, you kept smiling with a dozen piranha lurking beneath your skin, and then told her; "Go get your food." 

It was a dismissal spoken softly, velvet braided around iron, but she understood and scurried away. The damage had been done, however, and quartet of Clan kids had now found a target to latch into like razor toothed hounds. Or leeches. You didn't care too much about that comparison. 

One of them stepped forth, Clan traits apparent not only in features but the swagger to his step, the haughty curve of his lips. You couldn't help but to think a psychologist would find this place very interesting, with how the first group was a tier of powerhouses (in comparison, at least) fed confidence and arrogance since the cradle. Even if most now reminded you of little brothers imitating the big brother, the foundations were of steel. 

It was a Hoozuki, what with his silky hair spun of snow and vivid amethysts for eyes. And you faced him head on, blank as a sheet, silently wishing him and the others away so you'd be able to meet Ringo Ameyuri. "Can I help you?" 

"Yes," he humored you with a polite answer, even if something seemed to ripple just underneath the surface, but you couldn't tell whether it was a sneer or laughter at your expense. "I want to know why she'd grovel at your feet like that." 

"She's like that," you said, tense and not bothering to cover it, the best way to avoid conflict. The Hoozuki laughed. There it was, chiming and childish to fit everyone's looks even if the insides were no longer allowed youth. 

Then he swung at you, a quick and clean arch from the side with potential to knock out teeth. You jumped back, almost stumbling at the speed your feet propelled, but stayed solid on the ground. You had felt the air whiz when you had avoided the hit. It was a relief when he didn't attack again; one dodge was fine, but a battle you'd inevitably lose. 

You turned on you heel, grabbed empty-faced Gorou's upper arm and wide-eyed Kaede's (though that tended to be her perpetual expression) thin wrist, and left. 

Meeting Ameyuri would have to wait until an other day.

.

When you stepped out of the classroom later that day, another five wins in your pocket and gaining a reputation as group three's idol, your ego had been fed and your wariness stoked. 

It wasn't too misty outside, but the the ground was unusually soggy and every step seemed to suck your feet down into the slushy, brown depths. Kaede gave you one of her blithe smiles and offered Gorou a more shy beam, and then bounded of in the direction of the slums. The sociopath himself just gave you a flat stare, infinitely more respectful than he'd give anyone else, and stalked off with his hands in the pockets of his brown pullover. 

There was a flicker from your peripheral vision, a flash, and you barely turned in time to raise your arms and use your forearm to redirect a punch. The force sent you sprawling straight into the mud, the moist dirt seeping into your clothes, cold and wet and dirty. And then he stood above you, his smile filled with white knives, as if your rightful place was in the mud at his feet. 

(You were five and you smiled and bowed and was the perfect little girl when your father had business partners over for dinner.) 

(You were six and smiled at Akiyama while she bossed you around, testing the new kid, until every nerve seemed to be a rope being slowly worn down by a knife.)

(You were seven and told Kazuko not to worry, you'd fix it, no problem.) 

(You were seven and watched Kushimaru leave for his first mission, tiny and nothing in comparison to his lanky, lithely muscles form.) 

(You were seven and you had a million smiles. You were water, slipped into the cracks and filled them, froze and thawed until the cracks grew and grew and you became a necessity to keep the wall intact. You were a thread tickling everyone in the class, unnoticeably ensnaring, the biding idol.) 

You were seven, a small distance away from the rest of your classmates who deliberately didn't notice, too scared to notice, and all alone with the Hoozuki. You didn't feel like smiling. There was ink inside, curling and twining, poisonous, days and years of pretense sizzling underneath your skin, a snarl burning in your throat. The Hoozuki had dredged it all up to the surface despite barely doing anything, laid it bare or at least just underneath the surface.

The curve of his smile twitched, triumphant and thirsty, razors flashing, and you exhaled. 

Your arm shot out, and he pulled back while you rolled to the side, legs kicking out and connecting with his shins, even if barely. You jumped up with a mean elbow jab as you twisted around, barely scraping him (but you had touched a Clan kid in a fight, not everyone could say that). And then his knee connected with your stomach, sudden and with pain blooming, breathing coming to a grinding halt. 

It felt like a circuit cut in two. 

You knew you were meant to drop on your knees; legs shaking and feeling like doubling over, it was the most logical thing to do. Bowing down to Hoozuki, however, kneeling at his feet in the brown mush on the small field, would be like throwing everything into a blazing inferno and watching it burn. So you stood firm, and as a striking snake, fisted the collar of his shirt. You had no threats to make, no strength to drag him down into the mud, but you clung onto it, to him, a wordless promise that may not even have existed passing from your closed lips. 

His shirt was made out of fine silk, soft but strong between your fingers. 

And you smiled, serene and friendly, without teeth, and said; "If you'll excuse me." 

For the second time that day, you walked away from the nameless Hoozuki. For the second time, he let you. 

There was a small burn in your heart, gnawing like the ember of molten iron, somewhere in your regained calm. It wasn't until you were back in the orphanage you realized you were jealous. Jealousy was bred from wishing something from someone, a warped and twisted reverence, and you clicked your tongue. 

You didn't like it.

.

When dreaming it would often be flashes of your past life affiliated to emotions, _strong_ emotions, one memory leading to the next, a train speeding down a track at breakneck speed. 

Remembering everything at once would lead to depression and disorders, so you didn't mind, but remembering Hobbes, Machiavelli, Dante, Rousseau and Aristotle didn't feel like information that could be used in life and death situations. 

But you were certain there were other instances for it.

.

Lunch turned into wary affairs. Days passed, suspiciously uneventful (or, as uneventful as it got when you were a budding prodigy-but-not-quite from the lowest group), without a glimpse of that Hoozuki - _Mangetsu_ was his first name, you had learned, and almost laughed later when staring into your precious notebook, _because it was Hoozuki fucking Mangetsu_ \- nor any major hiccups except for a surprise test on theoretical elemental ninjutsu. It had gone well, but that wasn't very surprising. 

Momo would stare at you with large, glassy eyes after lessons ended, and you couldn't help but to _not_ hate her. You couldn't help but to _not_ hate fluffy, loyal chihuahuas, either, and she certainly reminded you of one. But you were a cat person, if anything, and though she didn't chafe away too much on your nerves, the fact remained that she was a small, devoted lapdog who, together with some others, were under a twisted delusion you would be-

You weren't exactly sure what, since you had designated them under the term morons -sub categorized as quasi-important ones- but you figured someone great who'd also be some sort of protector, a shield from their mothers' tales, someone broken souls could creep towards like starved rats. You couldn't deny you had a certain charisma, so you didn't take their silent, subtle worship as an insult. 

You ignored it. 

You didn't discourage them, either. 

(You were a horrible person, but you were far from the worst. After all, in the very end, it was Kirigakure's system you wanted to change for the better; your self-set goal, what gave you drive, even if you only did it to enjoy the ride.) 

"Gorou-kun is so good with the sword," said Kaede, not envious but awed, and you glanced away from your worn practice post to watch the ashen-haired boy swing his blade with the sort of ease which only came when human and sword weren't separate, but coexisting. It looked like a dance, smooth and effortless, and you gave her a flat smile. 

"I guess, it looks so easy when he does it," you agreed easily, and idly wondered if you should add that his footwork was odd. Besides, the last two days there had been tests last lesson and if finishing early, you'd be allowed to leave. You'd spend those last ten minutes watching the Clan kids practice; Hoozuki Mangetsu was better than him. Kuriarare Kushimaru, who'd sometimes spar against the fresh Chuunin in the backyard, was better than both, although he was two years older, so that made sense. 

You proceeded to disarm Kaede with a clever twist of the bokken during your next spar.  

You pretended not to feel vivid violet eyes boring into your back while the Clan kids passed the field on their way to the tatami-laid training room inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so far she has maintained a relatively high standard for her academics, which I don't find entirely realistic but s u r e, but for later I've been thinking about weapons. Genjutsu, because she's some sort of Mukuro incarnate (just kidding, but still), as well as sai and tekko-kagi combo, with a chokutou or katana as second option.  
> I've also started thinking of love interests, but I'll probably wait until much later to decide. Although I don't think she'd be in l o v e, more like she'd marry one person because it works out well for her future and have some sort of shady affair with one or two others.  
> Why am I even writing this story? 
> 
> On the other hand, more characters are appearing! I think Zabuza and Kushimaru will make their appearance next chapter, closely followed by some others. Out of all minor characters in the Narutoverse, I think Mangetsu might be my favorite. I can't say for sure why, because we know practically nothing about him, so I'll just imagine him as a more shrewd, powerful Suigetsu. Or something. I don't know? 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, see you in the next chapter!


End file.
